Walking out into the frozen night, I was bludgeoned yet again. But not by an unseen assailant. Or rather, exactly by an unseen assailant. This time it was by bitter, brutal cold, and it was worse than the last one because I stayed conscious. I half-considered going back and asking for a ride. But my pride and stoicism forbade it.
I figured out exactly which way I was facing and struck out for the Oak Table Café. I walked toward the glow, taking to the center of streets because the sidewalks would have put me knee-deep in snow.
And it just kept on falling.
I passed below the conical beams of the street lights, trying to think warm thoughts. My breath fogged in front of me, and my lungs burned with frozen air.
From a side street, headlight beams flashed, and for a fraction of a second, I thought it was my own car, returning to me like KITT from Knight Rider, indestructible.
But it was a cop car. An officer I didn’t recognize drove by, and following in the direction of the station, in his SUV, was French.
I instinctively raised my arm in greeting. He waved back.
Not a bad guy after all.
I wasn’t trying to get the guy to fall in love with me, but no salutation is ever wasted. My mission had been all about being friendly and kind to everyone, no matter what. Even though I wasn’t brimming with gratitude over the arrest, the fact was French had saved me from a very dangerous situation.
I found the eatery without incident, besides being cold.
The parking lot was empty, except for a burned-orange Jeep covered in snow.
The door was thick and heavy, with a big handle and a small fogged-up window. I stepped through, stamping my boots on the worn mat. A bell chimed.
Café was a bit of misnomer, in my opinion. Café implied small metal chairs and round tables in a courtyard partitioned off by a two-foot-high fence, with a menu of morsels. Or maybe that was a bistro or osteria. It seemed somewhere between a roadhouse and fine dining. Maybe. I didn’t really know. I was no expert.
But whatever. This place seemed to be a full-fledged restaurant, which worked just fine for me.
But it was empty.
There was a sign on a brass pole that asked me to please wait to be seated. And I did. From the entryway, I could see just a little way into the main seating room as well as part of the kitchen and some booths and tables.
A young woman, about my age, poked her head inquisitively around the corner leading to the kitchen. She blew an errant strand of red hair out of her face, giving me a tired smile.
“Sit anywhere you’d like. I’ll be right there.”
Which is exactly how the wait-to-be-seated sign should have read. It made for a much better invitation.
“Thank you, miss.”
I picked a corner booth against the kitchen wall and sat sideways so I could watch the door and the windows that took up two walls. It was too dark to see anything outside, but it made me feel better.
The interior was a lot like the station but less ornate, which was a better fit, given the log-cabin style. It was less pretentious, more functional. It had more blonde wood than dark. It was also devoid of any animal parts, which was another point in its favor.
The tables and chairs were wooden, the seats padded with cracked vinyl. The ceilings looked like freshly fallen trees stripped of their bark and branches and covered in a quick coat of sheen.
On the opposite wall a late model television was silently rebroadcasting the local news.
Leaning my head back against the wall and closing my eyes, I exhaled slowly. My headache had receded into a halfhearted throb, and the warmth of the restaurant was making me sleepy.
My car was gone. A setback, certainly, but it was by no means catastrophic. I had cash in my pocket and clothes on my back. Plenty of better people than me have gotten by with much less. I had met a lot of them in Peru.
I was grateful I was going to be free to see the rest of Cluff, and I was more grateful to be spared another day. I thought of the agent. What had he wanted to do? Where had he wanted to visit? Did he have a family?
I said a silent prayer and opened my eyes.
The girl was standing there, looking at me with a wry grin.
I sat up too quickly, and it made my head hurt.
“If you’re looking for the motel, it’s about six blocks that way.” She pointed toward the windows on the back wall.
I smiled. “I’ll get there eventually, I’m sure. But not on an empty stomach.”
She smiled back, tilting her head to one side slightly. She looked like she came straight out of a storybook—short, slightly round, apple-cheeked, and fair-skinned, with a heavy dusting of freckles. Like cinnamon on porridge. Under dark eyes her nose sloped down into a button shape. Her mouth was a little wide, which suited her smile.
She set a single sheet of laminated paper in front of me that must have been the menu. I slid it right back to the edge of the table like a poor poker player folding before even glancing at his hand.
I was hungry, but since she was apparently working by herself, I didn’t want to put her out. And I probably could have eaten one of everything listed.
Maybe two.
“How are your pancakes?” I asked.
“The best.”
I believed her. Just like I believe every waitress. Because the best pancakes are always the ones you’re eating at the moment.
“I’ll take a short stack, please.”
“Coffee?”
“Hot cocoa, please, if you have it.”
She nodded and smiled, which seemed to be a habit of hers, and disappeared back into the kitchen. I settled back into my seat, trying to remember if she had had a nametag. I could have drifted off then and there, but I have always endeavored to never go to bed on an empty stomach. And mostly I’ve succeeded.
Keep the top half full.
I tried to imagine where the investigation was headed on the murder victim and my stolen car. More likely than not Chief Strawn would be trying to identify the body, burning up the phone lines calling the FBI. Homicide tended to take precedence over grand theft auto in our crazy, mixed-up world of skewed priorities.
A few minutes later the girl came back with a plate of thick, fluffy pancakes as big as hubcaps. They were golden-brown with a perfect square of butter melting before my eyes. She slid the plate in front of me and with her other hand set a thick ceramic mug of steaming cocoa on the table. She handed me a set of cutlery from her apron, rolled in a paper napkin.
No name tag, which was a pity. I like to learn people’s names.
“Thank you very much.”
“May I join you?”
“Of course.” I was a little taken aback, but in a good way. As she sat down, I disregarded the knife and cut into the stack with the edge of my fork.
She set her elbows on the table and crossed her arms.
“What happened to your face?”
I looked at her in mock horror, eyes wide. “What’s wrong
with it?”
She laughed.
“I got hit. It happens from time to time.”
“Sorry about that.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“You’re either really lucky or really not.”
Between careful mouthfuls of pancake, I smiled. I am not a self-conscious eater, but when in the company of a lady, it is best to avoid talking with your mouth full. Or letting butter run down your chin.
“After tasting these, I would say really lucky.”
She laughed. “‘Be no flatterer.’”
“I’m sorry?” I said.
“George Washington’s Rules of Civility and Decent Behaviour.”
“You’ve read them?” I asked, surprised. Not many people were familiar with the first American president’s pocket-sized book of guidelines.
“Don’t look so shocked. I can read, you know.” She was joking, but maybe she had met out-of-towners who thought all backwoods beauties working in diners were illiterate.
“‘Be no flatterer.’ That one’s the seventeenth rule. It goes on to say not to tease those who don’t want to be,” I said, with a bit of satisfaction. It pays to be well-read.
“You’ve read them?” she said, and I wasn’t sure she was joking. Maybe she thought young male victims of car thievery with bad haircuts and no coats couldn’t read.
“I can read too. A little.”
“I’m glad you don’t mind being teased.” She smiled again.
“I don’t mind anything when I’m eating food this good,” I said, taking another bite.
“Well, good food or not, I would say you’re lucky and unlucky. Lucky to have gotten into town at all and not so much being stuck here.” She unfolded her arms and spread her hands on the tabletop. I didn’t see a ring, which should have been the thing I looked for before a name tag.
“What do you mean?” I asked around another mouthful.
“An hour before sundown the eastbound mountain pass closed. Completely snowed in. An hour after that the road west was shut down. Looks like you’ll be here for the duration of the storm.”
Strawn hadn’t mentioned that. Maybe that was why he wasn’t in a rush. He knew the murderer-thief couldn’t go anywhere.
A matter of disclosure.
I shrugged and smiled. “I wouldn’t get very far at the moment anyway.”
“Why’s that?”
“My car was stolen.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.” I indicated the bruise and cut.
I didn’t mention the body. Didn’t seem an appropriate dinner topic.
I switched targets and drank a bit of the hot chocolate. It was good. Better than the police station’s. Setting the mug back on the table, I turned back to the pancakes. I would have liked to have just talked with the waitress, but I was hungry and figured I could at least listen to her. Which was probably a whole lot better than rambling on myself.
“I’m sorry.”
I gestured dismissively with the fork. “Not your fault. If that is the worst thing that ever happens to me, then I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”
I took another bite. “Besides, like I said, it’s hard to get all bent out of shape about anything with pancakes like these.”
The waitress smiled and shook her head. “You’re pretty cavalier with your praise.”
“Just calling them like I see them. How do you get them so fluffy anyway?”
“Oh, it’s an ancient recipe passed down from generation to generation. Only those worthy of such knowledge are initiated,” she said, pausing for effect. “I’m just kidding; it’s actually really easy. You just put a lid over them while they cook, and the heat kind of steams them.”
“Good to know.”
Her eyes had just a touch of shyness. But the shrewd kind of shy, like she knew her strengths and her weaknesses. She was self-assured, self-possessed. A heck of a girl. With an easy smile. Probably the best I had seen in a long time. I hadn’t seen anyone like her in more than two years.
We just sat there for a moment, both smiling, both saying nothing.
“I’m Mary, by the way.”
Inwardly I cheered. It was always better to let girls give you their name without having to ask for it. Otherwise you might come across as being too forward.
I set my fork down and stuck out my hand. “Frank Sawyer. Pleased to meet you.”
She smiled again. “Frank? That’s kind of an old man’s name, right? I mean, no offense.”
“None taken. It’s true. Both of my granddads were Frank. Short for Franklin on my mom’s side and Francis on my dad’s.”
“So, which are you?”
“Neither. Just Frank, but most people call me Sawyer.”
“Okay. Sawyer, then. I like that better. ‘Frank’ just sounds
too old.”
“Just how young do you think I am?”
“Younger than me, and I’m twenty-two.”
I grinned, but I didn’t correct her. Flattering, but she was mistaken. Nice, but inaccurate.
“So, what are you going to do about your car?”
Finishing off my pancakes, I eased back in my seat. It was a good question. One I did not have an answer for. Which was all right because, in that moment, the heavy door sighed open, and a rush of frigid air spilled in. The bell above the lintel—loud, intrusive, and rude—interrupted our cozy, intimate moment between two perfect strangers.
In my relatively short earthly sojourn, I had managed to subdue a number of the evolutionary habits so pervasive to our kind. Take, for instance, when something makes a sound out of sight—it is the reflex of every creature that sees better than hears to look toward the source.
Mary looked.
I didn’t.
Not that there is an innate advantage to not looking. Quite the opposite, really. This was just another instance of my immense pride manifesting itself in odd ways. I didn’t like the idea of gratifying whoever came through that door with two pairs of surprised eyes. The peripheral worked just as well. And besides, I really couldn’t take my eyes off Mary. I liked her. A lot.
So I didn’t look. I just leaned back and drained my cup of cocoa. I made out two distinct shapes trudge inside amid a heavy shower of snow. One was French, the guy who had arrested me. The other was something else, a good two inches above my six feet and a solid twenty pounds on top of my two hundred and ten. Across the cheekbones, he looked Indian—that is to say, Native American, not from the subcontinent in Asia. He was dark and handsome, with a shock of thick black hair. Reminded me of Elvis.
Mary smiled and stood up, taking my plate. “Hi, Carter. Hi, Rock. The usual?”
They nodded. Kept staring at me. Small towns are always clannish and sometimes hostile. I had seen that on my mission—I had often been the only non-native in towns and villages in the jungle and mountains, and I had often felt the disapproving non-attention. But that can be part of the challenge, if not the charm. I like winning hearts and minds, and I like the relative peace and quiet of country living as opposed to the neon wash, the exhaust-filled air, and the press of people under glittering structures that blot out the sky.
The men moved toward the center of the room, decreasing the distance, trying to catch my eye.
I still hadn’t bothered to look directly at them; I was too busy squaring my mug up in front of me, admiring the craftsmanship and width of the rim and hoping for a bottomless cup policy.
They might have taken me for diffident, too afraid to look them in the eye.
But I think they knew better. It was at once innocent obliviousness and a direct affront to their assumed alpha roles in the community.
Mary brushed my arm with her fingertips as if to say, Be right back. Or possibly, Please don’t break anything, because it will come out of my paycheck and I’ll have to clean it up anyway and I was just starting to kind of, sort of, like you. Or maybe nothing at all.
Finally I paid the men a lazy glance.
French was out of uniform, stuffed into a police academy sweat suit with his name embroidered on the front. He still looked a bit like a snowman, but he looked more at ease than he had been when he had arrested me. Rock was in identical apparel. The name embroidered on his outfit was actually Roca, which is Spanish for rock. Rock had a sort of veiled malevolence I didn’t understand. We hadn’t even met. I thought about asking if I might join them for their next gym session. I hadn’t lifted weights in two years. But Rock looked like he might have abandoned me on the bench press with four hundred pounds on the bar.
I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just faded into a long, bleary stare, which wasn’t hard to fake because, though my headache was packing up and moving out without much fanfare, the pancakes had been hearty, and I was dead tired. Plus, Mary’s voice had such a relaxing, husky warmth to it that I was as ready to nod off as I’d ever been.
They were starting to look foolish, standing there in their sweatpants. Rock and French looked at each other, then back at me, and then toward the kitchen to make sure Mary was still gone. Finally Rock opened the ball.
“Hey.”
I didn’t answer.
At that moment, with me sitting and them standing, they had a distinct tactical advantage. But they weren’t armed. Weapons are impossible to conceal in pocket-less, form-fitting sweat suits. They had nothing up their sleeves, but I did—the only thing I’ve ever needed in my arsenal: me.
While subduing evolutionary habits, I had cultivated another. In the moment Mary had looked to the front door, I had slid, almost imperceptibly, to the end of the bench and hooked my heel on the outside of the seat. I’d straightened up against the backrest and gotten ready for immediate action. There was nothing worse than being stuck in your seat. Not that I wanted or expected to fight, not at the moment, but the one thing I had taken away from years in Boy Scouts was the importance of being prepared. And the one thing I had taken away from my attack on the highway is that you can never get complacent.
People are always erratic and unpredictable.
Then the cops gave up the high ground. The actual high ground, that is, not the moral one. Not that I had much claim to that one either; in this case, I was just being a little petty.
Rock slid in across from me with the dexterous ease of a big, strong man, and French fumbled his bulk around, scooting and sliding until he was situated.
They each set their crossed arms on the table, sending tiny vibrations through my mug.
Rock spoke first. “I said, ‘Hey,’ whitey.”
“I heard you. I don’t know what you want though.” I spoke evenly, slowly, and clearly, like a tired but patient parent listening to a kid whine.
Rock leaned harder on his arms. The table would have flipped if it hadn’t been fixed to the floor. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
I gestured dramatically around me like a magician revealing the results of his magic. “Eating,” I said. “Or I would end up all scrawny like you.”
“Hilarious.” He snorted and bunched his muscles. Maybe to prove to himself as well as to me that he was no tadpole.
“Just calling them like I see them,” I said.
“Well, you’re not welcome here.” He looked at me hard.
“Where?” I asked.
“Anywhere.”
“Well, your candor is most refreshing. As soon as you find my car, I will be on my way.”
If it came to it, I could have fought them. I imagined myself knocking their heads either together or one at a time against the tabletop. French would be slow, and Rock would have been trapped in the booth between the wall and his partner’s immovable girth until he could wriggle out from under the table, by which time I could have either escaped or put him out of action too.
But that was unnecessary. The imagined scenario was just the product of a brain programmed to assess every man like a potential enemy and figure out how, if needed, to beat them. It was an exercise that had become an instinct. Not that I looked for fights. Not at all. But if it ever came down to it, I couldn’t waste time deciding whether or not I was going to fight. That was a choice I’d have to make long beforehand. Otherwise I’d already be too late.
I said nothing. I’m not much for trash talk. I prefer to fight with my hands.
“What’s your problem?” I asked.
“We don’t like strangers,” French chimed in, but it didn’t sound convincing from him.
“Me neither,” I said. That gave them pause. I almost could hear the wheels in their heads grind. They were unable to form a verbal comeback.
“You afraid of us?” Rock asked.
I am afraid of nothing. But my pride does not stretch as far as rising to every challenge issued by each hothead I meet.
Suddenly I reached for my pocket. They stiffened and reeled back, thinking maybe I was going for a weapon.
I wasn’t.
I set my passport on the table. They stared at it.
I opened it to the most recent stamp.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I said. “I’m not amused either. I’m not annoyed with, interested in, or dismayed by you. I’m not your enemy. Those were the first pancakes I’ve eaten in two years. Mary is the first girl I’ve spoken to socially in two years. Now, if you want to eat, be my guest. I’m happy to buy you dinner. I like law enforcement. A lot. You saved me out there, French. Thank you.”
French looked sheepish. “I’m sorry I arrested you right away.”
“No apology needed,” I said. “But there’s a dead guy at the crash site and a murderer running around in my car.”
Rock frowned. “You should have told French right away the DOA was a fed.”
“It shouldn’t have mattered what he was; it certainly didn’t to the dead guy. A life is a life,” I said.
They said nothing.
I put my passport back into my pocket and continued. “Now, what’s the plan for catching the murderer?”
“No way he could have gotten anywhere going west. We put out an all-points bulletin right away, and the snow would have stopped him. We expect he came back this way, so he’s snowed in. There’s no point in us running around in the dark turning over every stone. He’ll show himself sooner or later. You just stay out of our way, and maybe we’ll get your car back for you,” Rock said. He glowered at me until Mary came back with their meals. Then he was suddenly all smiles.
Now I understood the malevolence. I was a new competitor.
French’s was an omelet devoid of any vegetables and replete with about two pounds of cheese. Rock’s was a meatball sub.
Mary was frowning a fraction at the three of us, not liking the veiled enmity, evidently. Maybe she had some sort of extrasensory perception or womanly intuition, or maybe it just showed in our faces. I took that as my chance for a graceful withdrawal and tactical retreat from the verbal fray. As I slid out of the booth, I handed her a twenty-dollar bill.
“Keep the change,” I said.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll be back for breakfast.”
“We open at eight.”
“Until then, Mary.”
Without a backward glance at the sweat-suited pair of cops, I stepped out into the world’s biggest freezer.